


rarely the small gestures

by wildbriars (persephonie)



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Confessions, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Dates, Flowers, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, Post-Film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephonie/pseuds/wildbriars
Summary: It is the beginning of their courtship, though Enola is caught unawares.(It's all in the details, really.)
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 23
Kudos: 229





	rarely the small gestures

**Author's Note:**

> "On love: always the great gestures, or that it is incompatible with ambition and individuality. Rarely the small gestures, rarely that these make the other accomplishments possible. A work in progress. A chain of kindness fashioned a link at a time. Clumsy effort, but effort nonetheless."
> 
> — Katie Ward

Enola finds flowers outside her door on a particularly grey Tuesday, four months after she’d solved the case of the missing Marquess; four months since she had last _seen_ said Marquess.

She had never cared for flowers, never gave them a single thought in all the time she’d spent adjusting herself in the lodging-house. She hadn’t bothered to decorate the place, leaving it just as it is and only keeping with her what she deems absolutely necessary. Such is the life of a detective; always on the move, always prepared to leave one life for the next. Personal items are to be kept to a minimal; her disguises, her documents and Dash, always tucked at the bottom of her suitcase, but really, that’s _it_.

She simply has no room in her suitcase for flowers.

She eyes them dubiously, looking around the corridor for any suspicious activity. When nothing out of the ordinary seems to happen, she gathers up the flowers: blue, wispy, long-stemmed. _Forget-me-nots_ , she infers, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. The last time Enola had seen these, they were dried and pressed within an old book she’d discovered in a certain treehouse.

Along with the flowers comes a small note, a stream of words scribbled clumsily onto a piece of browning parchment.

 _His Lordship, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether humbly requests the presence of_ _  
_ _Miss Enola Holmes_ _  
_ _at the Covent Garden Market_ _  
_ _3 o’clock sharp_

(There are two thoughts that immediately occur: one is that there is only one person who knows where she’s staying, and Enola hadn’t seen _her_ in the last four months either; and two, Enola _knows_ her mother’s handwriting, knows that she always wrote with a certain tactfulness, whether it was in urgency or affection. And this note had clearly been drafted without tact, as proven by the way the ink is flecked around the edges.

Besides, Mother would _never_ use parchment that looks about as worn as… well, as the old book she’d first discovered flower pressings in.)

Though the words may have been hastily written, the penmanship is nevertheless exquisite. Enola imagines that on top of legislature and nincompoopery, Tewksbury had also been taught to perfect the art of calligraphy.

She rolls her eyes instinctively at _His Lordship_ before scanning the note, ignoring—with difficulty, if she _might_ admit—the manner in which her heart seems to leap as she reaches her own name; the loop of her ‘o’ blending smoothly with the rest of it. She tries not to dwell too much on how carefully it looks to be written compared to the rest, tries not to picture the curve of his fingers around the quill as he spelled out her name.

It takes considerable effort, but Enola eventually tears her eyes away from the note altogether to look out her window. It is autumn in London, which means it would be dark, and undoubtedly cold, by at least six o’clock. She makes a mental note to bring her coat along.

An hour later, as Enola strolls past an old theatre on King Street, distractedly putting a shape to the name Tewksbury—imagining that his hair must have grown a little since she’d last seen him, and by and by the scene plays out in her mind; his delicate fingers wrapped around the Parliament gate, and her own, tentatively reaching for them—she stops in her tracks.

“Stars and garters,” she hisses to herself, realising just now that her hands are empty. “I’m going to freeze my knickers off.”

(Unsurprisingly, ‘knickers’ earns her pointed looks from passers-by.)

“Right then,” she mutters, shoving her already cold hands deep into her pockets. “Don’t be thrown off course by other people, Enola. _Especially_ nincompoops. Else you’ll make a fool of yourself.”

* * *

Enola arrives at the Covent Garden Market with less than three minutes to spare. She waits at the entrance of the Market, watching the people walk busily around her, scanning each boy that she comes within sight of.

“Enola!”

She whirls round a little too quickly and her heart, not having caught up with her body just yet, rattles nervously in her chest. She doesn’t speak for at least thirty seconds as she takes him in; his hair, which has—as she suspected—evidently grown a little, and his clothes, which are a lot simpler than she’d expected him to be dressed in. A little bit porter-ish, complete with a dusty brown coat that matches the hazel in his eyes.

“Your Lordship,” Enola greets slowly, a wide grin breaking across her face as she does a little bow. “’Tis an honour.”

“Oh, now, don’t start bowing on _my_ accord.”

“How rather bold of you to think that I would do anything on anyone else’s accord,” she retorts.

“You’re right. My apologies, Enola Holmes.” Tewksbury smiles warmly at her. “I’ve missed you.”

 _And I, you_ , Enola thinks quietly, but with Tewksbury looking at her so earnestly as he had exactly four months ago, all words seem to recede from her mind, and her mouth is dry. It feels like a lifetime ago since she’d last seen him, and yet it’s as though no time has passed at all.

She shifts her gaze uncomfortably. “Well, are we just going to stand here, then?”

Enola watches as his face falls slightly, and grins at him once in reassurance before sauntering toward him with her hands tucked in her pockets. Tewksbury brightens up. “Of course not. I’ve got a whole day planned for us.”

“Oh, have you?” Enola feels the heat rising to her cheeks. “Do tell.”

“First order of business,” Tewksbury says, stopping so abruptly that Enola very nearly bumps into him. He turns swiftly to face her. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to finally tell me I’m a man?” Tewksbury smoothes the ends of his coat. “I’m waiting.”

Enola eyes him from head to toe, keeping a serious look on her face, though her twitching lips give away her amusement. Then, in an instant, she breaks into a fit of laughter. “Tewksbury, it’s been four months.” When he doesn’t say anything, she presses, “It’s _only_ been four months.”

“And yet what a painfully long four months they were,” he says, bringing a hand to his chest theatrically. “I’ve certainly grown since then.”

“You certainly _wish_ so,” Enola ripostes. Then, giving him another once-over, she puts on her best Mycroft impression. “And where are your fancy clothes? And your hat?”

“Will those make me a man?”

“No, of course not.” Enola purses her lips pensively, and then, with a hint of fondness, “They would make you ridiculous.”

A hush falls between them and they exchange the briefest of smiles. Enola lets Tewksbury lead the way, following closely behind. There are four months between them wading through the Market today, in the bloom of November, and the last time they had encountered each other in the summer; four months of only hearing about the other in the news (and yes, Enola’s documents _do_ include clippings of The Pall Mall Gazette that have the slightest mention of one youthful Lord Tewksbury).

And though four months is really not _that_ long at all—at least not for a detective like herself, whom had otherwise been occupied with three cases that she’d picked up willy-nilly and solved with ease—Enola would be lying if she said that the kiss he’d planted on the back of her hand did not haunt her, like an exceedingly persistent ghost, all this time.

Enola falls into step with Tewksbury, and amid the crowd her fingers unwittingly brush against his, and she feels a searing heat on that all-too familiar spot. “I am _not_ an Austen heroine,” Enola reminds herself. “I do not blush in public and let the whole world know that the gentleman I walk with is the reason for it.” She feels a sudden dread, thinking that if Miss Harrison could see her now, she’d perhaps be pleased with her.

In an effort to distract herself from a plague of worse thoughts, Enola exercises her voice. “And where, might I ask, are you taking me?”

Tewksbury gives her a sly grin. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” she chirps, “not this second, not particularly.”

“Well, as it appears, you’ve no choice.” They’ve stopped walking. Enola notices a large cart of peonies before them, mostly pink and white, though there are a few that are claret red. Tewksbury inspects the cart closely, picks a handful of pink and white peonies, and thrusts them gently into her outstretched hands. “Peonies, for—”

“I know perfectly well what they’re for.” Enola nods sharply, taking a whiff of the peonies while Tewksbury pays the flower merchant. She doesn’t need to refer to her mother’s book to understand just what these flowers mean. “They’re quite lovely.”

“Now,” Tewksbury whispers, leaning in far too closely for comfort, “how about we go for tea?”

“Good,” is all she manages before the headiness of it all hits her—Tewksbury’s warm breath on the back of her neck, mixed with the peonies, and the soft autumn wind that’s just beginning to blow in—and she sways with the breeze. “Yes. Let’s go for tea.”

* * *

They go to Edith’s tea shop. They hadn’t exactly planned to, but Enola only knows one tea shop in London—she hasn’t particularly had time to explore the town fully since her three consecutive cases—and so she had let her feet carry them both to the place. She hasn’t visited the shop in four months, and with all that she has come to know, a brand new fear grips her.

“This is a charming place,” Tewksbury says vaguely, “very quaint.”

“Wait, Tewksbury,” she says, wringing her hands together agitatedly as they reach the door. “Do you mind if I… ah… have a look around inside, before you come in?”

“Enola, what—”

“Just trust me,” she pleads.

Tewksbury takes a long, hard look at her, and nods. “Of course.”

She smiles at him gratefully before making her way into the tea shop. It’s not very busy today; the tables are scarce, and only a few are occupied by upper-class ladies, while others hold more homely characters; friendlier, _chattier_ , and altogether more amicable. Enola greets them briefly before she makes her way past them and through the kitchen, coming face-to-face with Edith Grayston.

“Edith,” she breathes, “I’m glad to see you here.”

“Well, it is my shop, now, isn’t it?” Edith smiles. “Your mother told me what you did, you know. The Reform Bill.”

“Oh, yes.” Enola grins. “Well.”

“So, what brings you to my tea shop?” A faint thud can be heard from the upstairs room, and they both crane their necks upward to glance at the ceiling. “You’re interested in rejoining my ju-jitsu class.”

“Thank you, but I’ve been progressing well enough on my own. As you _may_ have noticed in the papers,” Enola can’t help but to add, a little proudly. “I just wanted to find out if—well—has my mother been here lately?”

Enola watches as Edith’s eyes undergo a series of expressions, from bemused to cagey, and Enola deduces right away. She sees Edith struggle momentarily with the right words, before eventually settling with, “She has work to do, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Right, no, I understand. I only asked because—”

“Enola,” Edith says, and Enola notices that her gaze is fixed directly behind her. “Is that _your_ gentleman?”

She turns to follow Edith’s gaze and then they’re both looking at Tewksbury, who’s pressed up against the glass window of the tea shop, peering in curiously. Enola notices a few tittering ladies seated by the window also taking in the sight of him—the new member of the House of Lords, this Viscount Tewksbury, this Marquess of Basilwether—playing peeping Tom as his eyes roam through the shop that’s clearly packed to the brim with young women; behaving, if not _seeming_ , a little like a nincompoop.

“No,” Enola says firmly, cheeks flushing despite herself. “No, of _course_ not. That—that’s just a useless boy.”

“A useless boy,” Edith echoes, quirking a brow. “And might this be the same one that you’d rid yourself of, months ago?”

“Yes, well, it appears that they are more difficult to do away with than I thought.” Enola daren’t meet Edith’s eyes. She fidgets with her dress skittishly. “Persistent little things.”

Edith glances once more at Tewksbury, and then gives Enola a knowing smile. “I’ll get your table ready. I reckon you’d like a bit of privacy?”

* * *

Their table is well-hidden from the bulk of the crowd in the tea shop. The ju-jitsu class is actively taking place upstairs, right above them. The ceiling carries the thrusts and throws of the sport even more loudly here than it had when they’d entered the shop, and though Edith is apologetic (“It’s either this one or you’re stuck next to those chatty ladies in the front!”), they certainly don’t help Enola’s nerves, which are unusually high-strung now that she and Tewksbury are alone.

“Well, then,” she begins, leaning forward in her chair, “how exactly did you find me, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether?”

“I have my ways,” Tewksbury replies with a grin. Then, as if it’s a perfectly normal phrase to follow up with, “You have lovely eyes, Enola.”

“Did you have me followed?” Enola pretends not to hear. She narrows her eyes at him. “Did one of my _brothers_ consult you? Tell me, what is it that they’ve offered you? I’m certain I can offer you twice as much to help me lead them astray.”

“Stars and _gar_ -ters,” he says teasingly, “surely you’re not that ridiculous.” When she doesn’t respond, Tewksbury continues, “My mother and I like to frequent this tea shop when we’re in London. She’s rather a fan of the lemon cake.”

“You’ve _been_ here before?” Enola gawks at him in surprise. “But—”

Just then, Edith arrives with their tea and Victoria sponge. She smiles at them both as she sets the food down on the table, and winks at Tewksbury. “Extra raspberry jam, just as you like it, Lord Basilwether.”

“Please, Miss Grayston,” Tewksbury says, shaking his head sheepishly, “when my mother is not here, I’m only Tewksbury.”

“And when a _Holmes_ is here,” she quips, tilting her head toward Enola, “I’m only Edith.”

Enola stares incredulously from one to the other, feeling totally perplexed. As the scene unfolds before her, she realises that perhaps four months _had_ been very long after all, if she weren’t privy to acquaintanceships such as this one. With another knowing smile, Edith leaves them with their cakes and tea, and Enola draws in a sharp breath before speaking again.

“That’s unexpected,” she says, as a hundred questions bubble over in her mind.

Tewksbury laughs. “I wanted to write you, Enola. Very badly, in fact,” he fixes his gaze on her, ever so intensely, that she has to look away, “and Edith kindly provided me with the address of a lodging-house on Fullarton Street. She made it perfectly clear that I’m not to say a word about it to anyone.”

Relief floods through her as one important thought immediately occurs: her brothers couldn’t _possibly_ know where she’s staying now.

“That’s excellent!” Enola exclaims, startling Tewksbury into dropping his teaspoon. “Edith is remarkable indeed.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tewksbury agrees. There’s a beat of silence before he continues, “Enola, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

“Mmmm,” she interjects, paying extra attention to the cake on the table, actively avoiding his eyes. She scoops a large bit of it and all but inhales it, gulping it down in a single bite. If Mycroft could see her now, he would without a doubt be appalled. “This Victoria sponge is simply heavenly.”

“Yes, it’s my favourite.” Tewksbury’s voice is quiet, and Enola feels a small guilt tugging at the corner of her chest. “The jam is the most delicious I’ve had.”

“It really is lovely.”

Another silence descends over them, this time it’s long and uneasy. Tewksbury keeps his eyes on his tea, only glancing at her each time she shifts in her seat. There’s a small jar in the middle of the table; cornflowers, bright and blue and beautifully arranged. Enola’s heart stutters as she sees them, her mind quickly getting to work at deciphering. The spot on the back of her hand starts to tingle.

The last four months of wondering when—or if—she would see him again, of not quite accepting that perhaps she never would, of bearing an unrelenting itch in the back of her mind that she now identifies as yearning, finally catch up to her. She lets out a sigh.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” Enola says to the flowers, “if you must know.”

Tewksbury, who had until then been occupied with the details of the kitchen doorway, whirls round to face her so quickly that she thinks it might have given him whiplash. “Enola—”

“It’s quite annoying, actually,” she continues, “just how much I’ve missed you.”

She finally looks up to face him. Tewksbury’s eyes are glistening. _Viscount Irritation, Marquess of Bothersome-shire_ , Enola tenderly recalls. He smiles at her— _beams_ at her, more like, with the way he’s practically glowing—and reaches out to pluck a cornflower from the jar. “And what’s made you miss me, Enola Holmes?”

“For one, you’re everywhere,” Enola huffs. “Your face has been plastered on every copy of The Pall Mall Gazette since the vote. I’m sure it’s become impossible for anyone to start the day without being reminded of your very existence.”

Despite her best effort to look exasperated, Tewksbury is still staring at her with… well, with the brightest _bloody_ stars in his eyes.

“And _secondly_ ,” she presses on, “during my last case, I was forced to spend a great deal of time with flowers.” Tewksbury quirks a brow. “And with each flower I came across, your silly smile appeared along with it.”

“That’s a rather comforting notion,” Tewksbury says. He reaches across the table and his hand, trembling now, just barely brushes up against the tips of her fingers. He presses the cornflower into her palm. “Enola…”

There’s a lump in her throat where her voice should be. The air is especially warm around her, and she feels the heat rising to her cheeks, feels it between her elbows, behind her knees. The ground beneath her feels unsteady. She fixes her gaze on the cornflower in her hand.

“I shall be the happiest man,” Tewksbury begins, stopping abruptly when Enola glares at him, “ _boy_. What I mean to say is, I shall be the happiest boy if you were ever to return my affection. That is to say, the—the affection I feel for _you_.” A deep blush spreads to his neck. “And _with_ my affection for you, of course, I’d like to continue to prove my affection _to_ you—”

“Tewksbury,” Enola cuts in. She has never in her life heard anyone utter the word ‘affection’ so many times within a single breath. “I think I’m getting the point.”

He stops talking and winces with embarrassment. He darts a glance across the table to study the Victoria sponge between them. The volume of the crowd around them grows, filling the air with manic laughter and the clinking of teacups. Enola feels the nervousness slip away from her, and she straightens up in her chair. She twirls the cornflower between her thumb and forefinger.

“Stars and garters, what a speech!” Enola grins at him. “Do all the gentlemen in the House of Lords speak in that manner, or is it just you who prefers to address the room unrehearsed?” He doesn’t reply. She clears her throat before speaking again. “Tewksbury, I—I dare say I’m _affected_ by you, too.”

Tewksbury laughs. His smile reaches his eyes. The joy in it is palpable, and Enola finds herself laughing along. He leans forward in his chair and takes her hand. Then, ever so swiftly, he presses a soft kiss on the spot between her knuckles. When he pulls away, she doesn’t let go of his hand. The same thrill from their goodbye four months ago rushes through her.

“Now, don’t—” Enola tries to keep a serious expression on her face. “Don’t think this _changes_ anything, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether. It’s highly unlikely that I’m going to throw myself into anything, especially not anytime soon. As you know, I lead a very busy life.”

“Understood,” he says quickly, as though saying anything else at all would make Enola take back her words.

“I am not, however, opposed to picnics.” She thinks of the picnics she used to have with her mother back at Ferndell Hall, just in the garden behind their home. It feels like a fond memory now, a scene from a past life. “I love a good picnic.”

“Duly noted.” Tewksbury purses his lips in a self-satisfied smirk. “What else?”

“I’ve always felt an inclination to visit the Kensington Gardens.” She knows—and so does he, she’s sure—that the Kensington Gardens are famous for having the most beautiful collection of roses in the world. “But perhaps we’ll save that trip for the spring.”

“Perfect. Springtime is my favourite season,” he says, his eyes twinkling excitedly, as if this is brand new information. _As if she didn’t already know._

* * *

The sky has darkened when they leave Edith’s tea shop. The air is colder at night, just as she had predicted, and Enola finds herself shivering despite her layers of clothing.

Tewksbury eyes her curiously. “Where is your coat?”

“You sound an awful lot like Mycroft,” she says, annoyed—mostly at herself, as she bitterly thinks of her coat that she’d left sprawled on her bed, back in the lodging-house.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “Have you left your coat in the shop, my _dear_?”

Enola stops in her tracks and spins round to face him. They’ve both turned pink as the sunset. There’s a pause before either of them says anything, and then they laugh nervously together. She considers the sudden weight of the word—that unfamiliar term of endearment—in his mouth as he regards her. (She decides that she is not averse to it.)

“I’ve forgotten it,” she says, the shakiness in her voice betraying her composure. “Back at the lodging-house.”

“Here.” Tewksbury shrugs off his coat without hesitation, and gently places it over her shoulders. It’s a little too large, even on him before, and she feels instantly warm in it. “Are you comfortable?”

“Very much so, thank you.” Enola grins. Out of habit, she slides her hands into the pockets sewn into the linings of the coat. Her fingers brush against something coarse. “Oh, what’s this?”

Tewksbury looks properly horrified as she pulls out several pieces of parchment. If he had been pink before, he’s completely red in the face now. “That—that’s nothing! Here, hand it over—”

“Dearest Eno—” she stops reading. The heat rises to her cheeks. “Were you practising your calligraphy with these?”

 _Dearest Enola Holmes,_ _  
_ _To one brilliant and brave Enola_ ~~_Hoolmes_~~ _Holmes_  
_If you find this, Enola_ ~~_Holmmes,_~~ _Holmes, know that I would be honoured to_ _  
I do hope you like the flowers_

“This is ridiculous!” She stares at him incredulously. “How on earth did you manage to misspell ‘Holmes’ twice in a row?”

“If you’re not aware, Enola, you have a _distractingly_ curious name,” he says. He plucks the parchment from her hands and tucks them briskly into his breeches. “A lovely name, but still, a curious one.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says again, though the words are bare of any real chagrin. “And for the record, I did like the flowers.”

As they turn into Fullarton Street, the lodging-house comes into view. The streets are empty and the wind has calmed to a soft nightly breeze. The sky is almost pitch black now, and underneath the street lamp, Tewksbury looks taller and his smile brighter, more confident. _Almost like a man_ , she thinks, with an emphasis on _almost_.

Looking at him now, Enola can’t help but feel proud in seeing how far he’d come, from the boy she’d met on the train, with the unsureness of his place in this strange world as he’d once confided to her by the fire so long ago, to the Lord Basilwether he is now, ever so passionate about his ideas of progression, as she’s kept up with in the papers.

“Here we are,” she says. There’s an odd quiver in her voice. She turns to walk up the steps to the house. “Well, good night, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether.”

“Enola,” he calls, catching hold of her hand. “I’ll see you again, won’t I?”

“Unfortunately.” She grins at him, and rolls her eyes. “You know where to find me.”

Tewksbury brings her hand to his lips so swiftly, so effortlessly, and it takes nearly all of her energy to draw her next breath. Swept up in the moment, she staggers forward and pulls him into a hug. He wraps his arms around her tightly, and she feels his cheek on her shoulder. She breathes him in, letting the faint scent of peonies and cornflowers and raspberry jam linger between them before they pull apart.

“Send more flowers my way,” Enola orders. “I’ve grown to care for them now, as I’m sure you’re pleased to know.”

“Wonderful.” He beams at her, a moony glow reflected in the crevices of his smile. “Forget me not, Enola Holmes.”

She shakes her head. _Impossible_ , she thinks. It’s only as she walks up the steps of the lodging-house and through the door of her room that she hears the cipher in his last words. She makes a mental note to keep an eye out for those blue, wispy, long-stemmed flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> help i saw this film five times in the past week i love it so much
> 
> a couple of notes/disclaimers;
> 
> 1) enola talking to herself = enola breaking the fourth wall  
> 2) tagged 'historical inaccuracy' because dating outdoors was simply *forbidden* in victorian england  
> 3) you bet your arse enola holmes would use what little embroidery skills she has to sew pockets in her dresses  
> 4) i'm sorry for the overuse of 'stars and garters' lol i just genuinely adore that expression  
> 5) did i steal the 'you have lovely eyes' line from [louis partridge himself to millie bobby brown????](https://youtu.be/hoihoGGdQ4U?t=270) yes, yes i did


End file.
